After drinking a cup of tea he drifted
to the instrument--flies do not hanker after honey as strongly as do
pianists in the presence of an open keyboard. A tactful silence ensued.
He began playing, and, as if exasperated at the challenge implied by her
refusal, he played in his old form. Then he took the theme of Chopin's E
flat minor Scherzo, and he juggled with it, spun it into fine fibres of
tone, dashed it down yawning and serried harmonic abysses. He was
magnificent as he put forth all the varied resources of his art.
Constantia, her cheeks ablaze, her lips parted, interposed a fan between
her eyes and the light. There was something dangerous and passionate in
her regard. In all the fury of his play he knew that he had touched her.
Once, during a pause, he heard her sigh. As he finished in a thunderous
crash he saw in the doorway the figure of the Japanese maid--an ugly,
gnarled idol with slitted eyes. She withdrew when he arose to receive
the unaffected homage of his hosts. He was curious. Monsieur Pelletier,
who looked like a Brazilian parrot in beak and hue, cackled:--
"That's Cilli, our Japanese.
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